All You Wanted
by BizGirlCharlie
Summary: Jericho and Lita can't even save themselves. Can they save each other?


Title: All You Wanted  
Author: Lyndelle (BizGirlCharlie)  
Distribution: Just ask!  
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, I'm just borrowing 'em.  
Rating: R  
Content: angst, romance, drugs, possibly sex (het)

Characters: **Jericho/Lita**, discussion of other characters including a slashy pairing of Jeff Hardy/Rob Van Dam  
Summary: An answer to Adri's challenge for a fic of this pair. It's also a song fic for the song 'All You Wanted' by Michelle Branch because I've been dying to do a wrestling fic based on that. I'm a feedback whore, please feed my addiction! Set about a month ago, when Fozzy had gigs on Raw and then at the World. No real spoilers to speak of, but some past happenings are mentioned.

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King of the world? That was a joke. More like the king of the losers. Nothing had even come close to approximating rightness since before Wrestlemania. Downward spiral? Yeah, you could call it that, but that was someone else's wrestling move…or had been…or something. He didn't care, didn't really want to be thinking about someone else when he was so neatly entering the depths of self-pity.

Tonight's show…another joke. He and the guys had been thrilled to hear they had a gig at the World. They'd played their hearts out and what did they get in return? Boos, jeers. The guys probably hadn't even noticed. Hell, any publicity was good publicity, right? And dammit, 'Happenstance' was one hell of an album. Wasn't it? Shit, could it be that he honestly didn't know anymore?

The guys were elsewhere right now, probably getting themselves a piece of the finest hookers New York City had to offer. That had been the plan, at least. He just wasn't in the mood. That's why he was here, running a bottle of beer from palm to palm, absently peeling back the corners of the label.

A good idea, drinking when you were low. Hell, a great idea. A depressant for a depressive. Brilliant. He threw his head back, chugged the rest down, felt the glow in his cheeks and the sweat beading on his forehead, felt the beer hit his stomach, gurgle around. He was nauseous and the fermented yeast taste was just making things worse. He groaned quietly and then let out a belch, even as his right hand reached down inside the pocket of his leather coat. Still there. Thank fucking God for that. Not that he couldn't afford some more, having just renegotiated his contract but shit, coordinating it all certainly had its drawbacks. He ran his fingers over the small bag, weighing it in his palm, though of course it weighed next to nothing. Sometimes he wondered what it'd be like to put some more bags together, different sources if he had to, do a whole shitload at once. Sure, he'd OD, probably kill himself, destroy his nasal passages beyond recognition, but at least he'd die with a smile on his face. He'd never do it though. Too gutless. Ironic, really. He ran his left hand over his face, wiped the sweat from his forehead, rubbed his tired eyes. Christ, he felt like shit. It was time to get up.

He caught the bartender's eye and held out a twenty, before setting it down on the bar. 

"Hold my place, huh?" he called, straightening out his jacket and then heading for the bathroom.

It'd be so much easier to do this on the counter. Small surfaces always gave the risk of losing some. But beggars can't be choosers and a drug conviction always looks fantastic on the CV of an elite athlete, so it had to be this way. He was tired, but soon wouldn't be. Soon he'd be able to stay up all night. Soon, everything would be great. He might even go find the guys, see what kind of tail they'd scored. 

He entered the stall, locked the door, smirking just faintly at the recognition of the hygiene practices of luxury hotels, even in their damn bars. Then he dropped his pants and sat, digging hastily into his pocket. Now he was here, momentary bliss couldn't possibly come too soon. 

There was a mirror in one of his other pockets. Of course there was, he was fucking vain, wasn't he? So much to fucking be vain about, he thought, fishing it out and setting it down on his lap before picking up the bag. He carefully opened the bag, tipping its contents neatly onto the mirror below. Next came a credit card. American Express Platinum for the superstar he was. Amex was bullshit, just like him, but it sure did come in handy for separating lines. When he was done, he fished in his wallet again, this time for a hundred. You lost some stuff doing it this way, but shit, it was classy. Rolled up, positioned carefully. He didn't hesitate. He wanted to feel real again and this was the only way.

The second it was inside his body, he almost screamed. As usual, his eyeballs just about screamed from his head and bounced down onto the floor and the burn at the back of his throat almost choked him, but it was okay, it was beautiful. He reared back on the seat, fingers extended but grabbing nothing before his palms slapped down on his face. Already he was charged, pumped, free, ready to knock a hundred thousand assclowns off their feet without a second thought.

He stood up quickly, took a piss for good measure, washed anything residual from his hands and headed back out into the bar again, knowing it would only be a temporary stopping point. He was the king of the fucking world and no one, no one could keep him down.

* * * *

Most people would find it hard to believe that she could lie like that in absolute quiet for hours, days on end and not go insane. And yes, the silence could be stifling, but what else could she do? There was no one to talk to, nowhere else to go.

She'd left Cameron. She'd had to go. Even though she had her own place she couldn't have stayed a moment longer in Matt's hometown, not when he'd dumped her like he had. She'd never seen it coming, though perhaps she should have, what with the abruptness of this whole 'Version 1' thing.

"I'm reinventing myself," was what he'd told her and she'd nodded. She'd understood. Of course she knew exactly what it was like, the number of times she'd reinvented herself. When she stopped to think of how supportive she'd been… But of course, reinvention was never supposed to have included his love life, never supposed to have included her. It had, though, and here she was.

She had nobody she could count on. Even her dog was over at Lilian's apartment. Lilian had offered to take her in too, just until she was back on her feet, but…but, no. For all their perceived similarities, she and Lilian were from different worlds. They thought on entirely different wavelengths. Most people were on a different wavelength to her, actually, and that's why most people wouldn't understand her ability to be wholly and completely alone.

Jeff understood…well, at least he had. True, he hadn't ditched her the way Matt had, but whenever she called him, he was with his boyfriend, either getting high or in the blissful aftermath of great sex. Okay, so the greatness of it was speculation, but look at the flexibility of the two of them - there was no way that sex between them could be anything but great. Matt sure wasn't that flexible, not that it mattered now, since she'd never be having sex with him again.

She sighed to herself. Earlier today she'd been watching a tape of the last match she'd been at where she was actually herself. Matt had challenged Chris Jericho, around the time of the brand split. She'd been euphoric because she, Matt and Jeff were all going to be on Raw and because she was just about to film the finale of 'Dark Angel'. She'd ended up being put in the Walls of Jericho, which itself was a moment of strangeness. She'd always admired Jericho and, before that situation with the Undertaker back in December - the last time she and Matt had broken up - she would have called him a friend. Not that she blamed him for his anger. Looking back on the tape, she and Matt, but especially Matt, had acted like complete jerks.

Wrestling was just like high school. You had the cool group, the not cool group, the group of bullies and assholes who everyone hated. Cliques and divisions, teams and enemies, everywhere. It was so easy to get carried away and pick on someone you didn't even have a problem with, only to find yourself spiraling into the depths of an all-encompassing feud. It was kind of stupid, really.

Jericho had been one of her heroes and even though he'd lost his way recently, she still admired him. He was small by wrestling standards, and yet he'd been the best. He'd been the undisputed champion. How could you not admire that? He'd overcome a significant size disadvantage and two opponents to win the title and he'd held it for three months. That was what she'd wanted to do with the women's title, why she'd challenged Chyna last year. Not that the women's title would have been enough. She wanted to be like the men, like Jericho, Jeff, Rob, Rey Mysterio. Funny. Now she was exactly like the men, like Chris Benoit, Stone Cold, X-Pac, Rhyno. She knew what it was like to break her neck.

Even so, it was a whole lot better than it had been. Not so long ago she'd burst into tears over the frustration of trying to make a sandwich. Now they even let her drive. But she couldn't run and jump and fly…not without an airplane. This was what she lived with. Injuries happened.

She stretched her tired legs from her previously defensive, somewhat curled position. That was the main thing she resented about being cooped up in her room all day and night. Minutes later, she was locking the door and slinging her purse over her arm. She didn't know where she was going, but she'd decided to take a walk. She didn't even have to leave the hotel if she didn't want to. She could just walk…and be alone with her thoughts some more. Sometimes thinking was just that little bit easier when you were mobile.

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I wanted to be like you  
I wanted everything  
So I tried to be like you  
And I got swept away

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A/N: Aren't they perfect for each other? You can tell which of them is my dominant muse, can't ya? Oh well, soon they'll meet up and it won't matter who's dominant *smiles*


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